Patience had never been a resort when it came to things a human wanted in the frisk of the moment. Ninety-nine percent of cases often ended in impulsive actions, fueled by the urgent need for immediate satisfaction. Desires were rarely quelled by logic or reason; they burned bright and fierce, demanding attention and fulfilment without delay.
But that one per cent… was the glitch.
I ruled that part.
At least that's what I believed.
The fact that I had perfectly mastered the art of patience set me apart from the impulsive masses. While others succumbed to their desires, allowing them to dictate their actions, I thrived in the one per cent.
Yet, even the most controlled mind can be tested.
My fucking belief in my patience was defied the moment I saw her with that fucker.
Ah, the irony.
The one thing I thought I had in spades, crumbling because of a simple, fleeting glance. Their proximity stirred something dark and twisted within me.
The urge to create havoc, to destroy everything she held dear, surged through me like a drug. Oh, the thrill of it! I wanted to ruin her, to break her down piece by piece. Skin her like the canary Mother gifted me. She always knew how to pick the perfect toys. Only this time, I didn't want to just see underneath the flesh. No, I wanted to unravel her soul, to understand what made her tick, and then crush it all.
A careful plan began to form in my mind. First, eliminate the fucker. Slowly. Painfully. Maybe start with his fingers, watch the realization dawn in his eyes as he comprehended his impending doom. Then, leave him as a present for her. The horror, the tears, the despair-ah, it would be delicious. Would that please me? Yes. Would that be enough? No.
And her? She'd be next. But not too quickly. No, she needed to understand when I set eyes on certain things, I wouldn't stop at anything till I had her all to myself.
I could already imagine her screams, the terror in her eyes when she realised there was no escape. To peel back her layers, not just her skin but her very essence, exposing the raw, vulnerable core beneath. And then, when she was nothing but a trembling mess, I would decide whether to end her or let her live with the memory of what I'd done.
Yes, patience was my ally, and chaos my weapon.
She was an anomaly that stirred the calm waters of my plan.
Her sniffles pulled me out of the mayhem creating in my head. I let my eyes rake over her. Pressed against the couch as if it'd save her. I was so fucking enraged I almost forgot what I was planning to do to her. Fuck her and her infuriating existence. I'd fuck her once and get it over with.
I could see the spark of rebellion in her dark eyes, the need to run. I waited for it, intending to squash it once and for all. She fidgeted with her hands, and I noticed her fingers had started to turn blue. Now that I think, she was always wearing filthy clothes, not warm enough. She was wearing baggy jeans and an ugly sweater that swallowed her tiny frame.
But still, the rage inside me was all-consuming. It took my will and my fucking everything to not go back and put a bullet through his head. He dared to touch her. And the fact that it was the second time I saw him with her and she even lied to me. She fucking lied to me, to save the skin of another man. I hadn't validated my claim on her yet, but that didn't mean she could go around and bat her fucking lashes at some bastard.
Her pathetic existence only fueled my anger.
I approached her slowly, savouring the fear that flickered in her eyes. She pressed further into the couch as if it could protect her from what was coming. It was almost laughable, really, how she thought there could be any escape.
And why did this expression make her look a thousand times more beautiful? Was it because she knew I could see? Like I fucking cared. I wouldn't say I liked the way she acted all scared in front of me though that's what I wanted earlier, and like a wrecking fireball in front of that bastard. Did that mean he happened to see expressions other than fear on her face?
"Drop your hands," My voice dropped an octave. Today I was in no mood for playing games. I had enough shit to deal with. "Drop your fucking hands, Fenochka, if you don't want me to chop them off."
The threat worked. She limply dropped her hands on her sides, her head lowered and the dark tresses hid her face-another thing I hated.
I grabbed my little bird by the elbow and pulled her up. She gasped and tried to fight the nail and hook but one look from me and she stilled. Her defiance melted into submission as her breath quickened.
A soft moan escaped her lips, and a surge of rage coursed through me. I wanted to reach out and rip that sound from Kyle's memory, to claw it from his mind. No one should hear her like this but me.
I shouldn't care-I ordered him to follow her, to watch her every move-but something had twisted inside me. It could have been the moment I first saw her, the defiance in her eyes when she refused me, or the electric thrill when I tasted her for the first time.
Her lips now, a faint pink, no longer red, bruised, or bleeding, infuriated me. It pulled me back to that night when I wanted to consume her, to see her delicate skin bloom with crimson, to watch her bleed for me.
She was mine, more than any documents or deals. My little bird was mine to ruin, to torment, to possess.
"Track that bastard," I said in Russian keeping my voice low.
(Track that bastard.)
"Who, sir?" My jaw ticked. The bastard was playing. I didn't bother to look at his annoying face and he probably bet my warning as he continued. "On it."
She thrashed in my hold again.
"Are you… going to force me?" Her eyes were blurry, tears I assumed and her voice shaky. My hand on her sweater twitched and the thought amused me.
I raised a brow. "I don't know. Should I?"
"You do realise I would never sleep with you willingly."
"Don't tempt me."
Her disobedience was delicious, a flicker of resistance that only made the game more enticing. "Why- "
I rolled my eyes. Here we go again. It was always the same: the futile struggle, the pleas for mercy. Pathetic. As if tears and begging would magically change the situation. Her emotions meant nothing to me, just tools to be manipulated. Her fear, her anger, her pain – they were all part of the entertainment. She was just another piece on the board, another toy to be broken.
And I, the master of this game, revelled in the control I held over her.
I brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb, enjoying the feel of her delicate flesh under my skin. The dark thoughts resurfaced. But I tucked them away. If I didn't want to kill her before getting laid, that would be a waste. After all, killing her wasn't the plan, at least not yet.
"Why don't you just relax? Make it easier on yourself. If you're good, things might not have to get... unpleasant." I leaned in closer, my breath hot against her ear. The scent of fear and something delicious, and I took a deep breath. "But if you keep resisting, well, I have a lot of creative ways to break you."
I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in. Watching as her face paled, lips parted and oh, was it an invitation?
See, the funny thing about fear was that it made people so much more... cooperative. And I could smell it on her. It was intoxicating.
Her eyes widened, and I could almost hear the rapid beating of her heart.
She might think she was strong, but everyone had a breaking point, and I was very good at finding it. Submission or suffering? Either way, I'd win.
"Do you think I bluff, ptichka?" And she quickly shook her head, the damn hair moving with the movement. It took all my self-control to not fist them and slam her against the wall and fuck the resilience out of her. Instead, I just tucked them behind her ear.
"You seem to get the wrong idea here. I am giving you time because that works in my favour, but I can change it anytime," I smiled, and her eyes widened. "You defy, I'll become a monster."
"Now, take it off before I do it for you." My voice was harsh despite trying to keep myself calm. I never lose calm. Yet today, I felt out of control.
She hesitated, her hands trembling as they reached for the hem of her sweater. Her movements were slow, and hesitant, every inch of fabric she lifted revealing more of her delicious, vulnerable skin. The sight fueled the fire within me. Fuck.
As she pulled the damn ugly sweater over her head, I watched intently, my gaze devouring every exposed inch of her.
I shrugged off my own jacket, the cool air biting at my skin momentarily before I threw it on her face. "Wear this."
She fumbled with it, her fingers trembling too much to manage the task smoothly. The jacket dwarfed her, making her look even more helpless, more under my control. The sight was hallucinogenic; every ounce of resistance she had left slowly crumbled away.
"See how simple that was?" I taunted taking the cigar out of my pocket and lighting it up. I needed my mouth busy. If not on the cigar, I'd end up with her nipples in my mouth. "Cook something for me."
Challenge me again, and she'd wish she hadn't.
Her face contoured in confusion though fear never left, eyes wide as she tried to process my command. She fumbled with the sleeves, looking like a scared child lost in a nightmare. Then, she nodded, a quick, jerky movement before turning and running away to the opposite end of the hall, away from the kitchen.
I rolled my eyes, exhaling a cloud of smoke as I watched her stop near the stairs, the panic evident in her every move. She turned and, realizing her mistake, ran to the kitchen.
The lust in my eyes burned hotter. I wanted to ruin her, to tear apart her fragile sense of security piece by piece. The way her body moved, the way her fear radiated off her, it all drove me to the edge of control.
She was in the kitchen now, clumsily searching for pots and pans. My mind wandered, imagining her on the counter, vulnerable and pleading, my hands roaming her body, claiming every inch of her.
I took another drag from the cigar, the taste bitter on my tongue, but not as intoxicating as the sight of her. I wanted to feel her squirm under my touch, to hear her gasps and moans as I pushed her beyond her limits. The idea of breaking her completely, of having her submit entirely to my will, was almost too much to bear.
She was a canvas for my darkest desires, a toy to be played with until there was nothing left but a hollow shell of compliance.
I studied her, watching her every move, imagining all the ways I would make her mine.
I was still fuming with pent-up frustration for not strangling that fucker who put his hands on her, who didn't only touch her but smiled at her. At that moment, I never wanted to see life leave someone's eyes as much as I craved to strangle it out of him. I had never been one to be repulsed by it; in fact, I enjoyed it. There was a strong bloodlust, unlike my brother and the thought of his smug face contorted in agony was almost too delicious to resist.
Another thirty minutes passed and I was contemplating walking into the kitchen. But let her dish out whatever she wished to. Now that I thought of it, when was the last time I sat with my family and ate? Probably before the accident or not once in two years.
Fuck. Time did fly fast. Another drag and I tilted my head and let the smoke cover me. But not before I get my revenge. Ah. Now that I remember, wasn't this the reason why I moved back to Russia? I was running out of time. Now that I killed Donatello Maroni, there was less chance the others would want to cooperate. I liked to believe they would bow down before me, but traitors could be unpredictable.
And she was the perfect distraction, a beautiful plaything to keep me entertained while I dealt with the larger issues at hand.
But now, with Maroni gone, the power dynamics were shifting. Allies could turn to enemies in a heartbeat, and I needed to stay one step ahead. The underworld was a game of chess, and every move had to be calculated, every piece strategically placed. And she, this trembling, fearful creature before me, was just another piece on the board. A pawn to be used and discarded as I saw fit.
I threw the bait, and now I was waiting for the prey to take a bite.
My ears perked as I heard familiar footsteps. Kyle. The bastard stopped behind me and extended a fucking file to my face. I raised my brow.
"Information." Ah. He was fast. I took the file and flipped through the pages, scanning the words written in Russian under the fucker's grinning photo. I'd enjoy knocking down his teeth. He'd smile wide with his toothless mouth.
My eyes narrowed on his name. Kyle sensed it and muttered in Russian. "I guess we found the lost piece of the puzzle, sir."
This… couldn't be this easy, right? I threw the cigar on the table as the information caught my whole attention. Holy fuck. A wide grin teased my lips. "Well, shouldn't it be celebrated, Kyle?"
Ivan Morozov. Lucius Morozov's brother, hidden from the world. Well, wasn't it entertaining how I wanted to kill both brothers?
I could use him to get to Lucius, just like he did to mine. Nothing like a little family reunion to stir things up. And loud utensils clattered in the kitchen and I shut my eyes. She was the perfect bait.
Lucius had no idea what was coming, but that was part of the fun. The game was just beginning, and I was going to enjoy every moment of it.